


You Have All The Weapons You Need

by auroreanrave



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Fusion, Apocalypse: Westeros, Fantasy elements, Fights, Girls with Guns, Grief/Mourning, Guns, Modern Items, Multi, Prophecy, Smut, Traditional Setting, Violence, mentions of previous abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where a crow is a 'copter, dragonglass knives work as well as assault rifles, and Westeros has all but fallen to the White Walkers, a ragtag team of survivors holed up in Winterfell, the last fortress of the North, plot an audacious plan to eradicate the Others once and for all. Meanwhile, in the nation's capital, an uneasy truce between man and demon lies, and one girl, far across the Narrow Sea, may prove to be the key to saving the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. This is a very, VERY different kind of story to the one I'm using to telling and was hugely inspired by the anachronistic styling of the 2011 film 'Sucker Punch' which involves girls jumping down into medieval worlds with Uzis to slay demons and dragons alike (and also provides a sentiment during the film's epilogue which has become the fic's title in homage). I wanted a world where a lot of it felt rooted in the traditional 'A Song of Ice and Fire' world, only with more modern elements infused into it so that more visceral action could be explored as well as a decent helping of smut, mystery, and romance.
> 
> There will be plenty of intense action sequences written in throughout the work to try and create this kind of sprawling, epic feel, which will span across the continent of Westeros and even further as more characters are introduced as the plot dictates. This is just a fun fic, not a serious way of considering how 'A Song of Ice and Fire' will dictate even in the traditional ways (allegiances, people living/dying etcetera). I hope you treat it as much and enjoy it as the daft romp I truly intend it to be.

Jon Snow looked out across the frozen grounds in front of him, adjusted his cloak accordingly to the harsh wind, and looked out across the castle estate of Winterfell.

Winterfell stood imposingly across the North, heavy chunks of stone carved from the same quarries that Bran the Builder had used to form the Wall, and forged to create a sanctuary and domain for the Stark family who had taken the property as theirs for centuries.

Jon sighed, wiping his thick gloves across his face to remove the thin layer of snow that had begun appearing an hour ago over the turbulent skies. The estate was well-guarded, armed along every battlement with the strongest survivors available to the human resistance, but unease was constant in the air. Behind him, he could hear Hodor muttering as he moved supplies from one quarter of the courtyard to the other, where a cache of guns and weapons lay ready and waiting.

For the past three years, the invasion of the demonic creatures known as the White Walkers had lain waste to most of the land of Westeros. Pockets of human resistance and survivors of the Walkers' attacks, such as Dorne, and Winterfell, laid across the land but with every passing week, news came of more humans being lost and camps encroached. The Walkers spreading like a plague.

Only King's Landing remained thriving as the result of an unholy alliance created by the chief White Walker himself and King Joffrey Baratheon who had vouched for the safety of all those in King's Landing in exchange for no resistance. A tenuous stalemate, but one that had benefited the young king and his family and advisors.

Jon paused, anger swelling in him. And Sansa.

Jon had never been considered a true Stark - while he shared the same father as the other Stark children, his mother had not been Catelyn, but rather an unnamed bar wench in some town further south. Ned Stark, for all his quiet strength and legendary honour, had fathered another child with a scullery maid, and then taken in the child when his mother died.

This wasn't his home, Jon mused. Not really. Oh, he would always be grateful for the chance to grow up, to gain a family of sorts in the Starks. But he would always be considered a bastard - a motherless mutt sired out of wedlock who would never see any recognition.

Still, the other Stark children - his brothers and sisters - had always treated him as one of them. Sansa's position as an unwilling captive inside King's Landing as the former-fiancee-turned-hostage of Joffrey, therefore, scared the hell out of Jon. She wasn't a fighter, wasn't one turn to when the blades were drawn, but she was smart and calm and a strategist (she had always won at the logical games as a child), which gave him a modicum of hope that she was waiting and being smart in her well-protected gilded cage.

Jon checked the time on his phone - a modified toy that Sam in his infinite wisdom and limitless patience had converted into a useful communicator, local online access tool and everything under the sun. Speak of the Devil, Jon noted, grinning as he watched Sam clamber up the stone steps to the battlements.

Sam Tarly was the sole survivor of his house, having long been dispatched to the Wall to defend it from Walkers on orders of his sociopathic father. Sam wasn't a fighter, too large and clumsy to be any of real use in battle; what he was, was intelligent and intuitive and possibly the best person Jon had ever known.

Jon gripped Sam, tugging him into a kiss. "Gods, I've missed you."

Sam blushed, hand slipping down to grasp one of Jon's. "I've only been gone a few hours. Your brother's insisting we have every system ready and the auxiliary power supplies double checked, and your other brother wanted to talk about - "

"So many handsome men wanting your attention," Jon grinned, possessively snaking a hand across Sam's waist and stealing beneath the layers of clothing to grope at warm skin, "if I were a lesser man, I'd be jealous."

"You know you're the only one." Sam grins. Jon smiles back, strangely pleased and territorial. "Besides, Bran's fifteen and Robb only has eyes for Jeyne. You have nothing to worry about."

"How goes the preparations?"

"As well as can be expected. Most of them are climbing the walls and the others are remaining skeptical. Tyrion's sure to allay their fears, I'm sure, but I'm not sure whether hearing this come from the uncle of the human traitor king will be an easy pill to swallow."

Jon nodded. The Lannister clan had been divided upon the Walker invasion with Tywin sealing himself and his family inside King's Landing before the treaty had been negotiated. Casterly Rock had been one of the first settlements to be overrun and survivors had by and large found themselves in Winterfell, seeking refuge.

Tyrion had been one of them, offering his services and his loyalty, for all that such promises mattered in a world like this. Spring seemed so far away.

"He'll be fine. People are scared, Sam, and he's the voice who can provide them direction." Jon shuffled a little closer to Sam.

"Come on, then. The meeting'll be starting soon, and the sooner we can do this..." Sam broke off, looking out across past Winterfell's grounds. Jon followed his gaze.

What had once been cold but hospitable land was now all but barren and devastated. Walkers had brought over their own magics and in their wake left a trail of devastation to land and livestock that had proven to be as much a cull to the human settlements affected as were the Walkers themselves.

Jon gripped Sam's hand, kissing him on his cheek, warm and soft with fuzz from where he hadn't had the time to shave. "Show me the way." Sam nodded and led Jon down the steps and into Winterfell.

* * *

 

In one of the larger meeting chambers that had survived attempted Walker invasions of Winterfell, Tyrion Lannister stood at the front of a group of people, and internally prayed for the strength to get through what would be the most important mission briefing of his life.

Tyrion had always been a good talker, a good improviser. Never one for a battle, his short stature had always ensured he had been belittled - no pun intended - in front of his siblings, schoolmates, friends, and others, for years. He had developed a talent for pulling his punches with his words, using his natural intelligence to move through politics so that at the age of twenty three, he was a trusted advisor.

That is, until, his father had abandoned him in Casterly Rock for death. Tyrion had escaped, along with a handful of servants, the group reaching Winterfell half-dead and with a third of their number lost to the Walkers.

He had fought hard to earn the trust of the Starks. Spent days working in the kitchens, sweeping the floors, working the hours of the light to win himself to their cause. It had paid off, eventually, when a Walker attack at Riverrun had forced them to consolidate their resources, and Tyrion had implemented a defensive plan that had driven back the forces without a single human casualty.

Since then, Catelyn had looked upon with a measure of respect, and he had become their tactical advisor, looking to the future as to what they needed to implement in order to survive. And survive they would.

Tyrion looked around, surveying the group at hand. Robb Stark and Catelyn in one corner, Jeyne alongside them. Just along from them, Arya Stark, Jon, Samwell, Osha and Bran Stark stood, leaning against pillars that supported the pillar (well, Bran was seated in his wheelchair, but it was propped alongside and inbetween Osha and Jon). Stannis Baratheon leant against another pillar, arms folded and across from him, Jaime and Brienne. This motley bunch, Tyrion contemplated, were their last hopes.

"We are at an impasse, ladies and gentlemen. The war against the White Walkers continues to ravage Westeros and it's not getting any better. The south is all but a wasteland, everything east the same. Even reports from envoys across the Narrow Sea are reporting cities becoming sacked."

Stannis looked up. "We know. Cities are nothing but dust and human bodies rotting in the streets and in their beds. Any human settlements are rapidly becoming attacked. We're barely surviving ourselves."

Bran nodded. "Envoys of human survivors aren't reaching us as often as they should. We receive radio contact from a dozen groups and maybe eight get through. A whole third never make it."

Jeyne shifted uncomfortably, Robb laying a hand on his fiancee's shoulder. The Westerling girl, Tyrion had noted, was much more sensitive to this sort of thing, despite the literal field experience she was enduring on a daily basis. Tyrion carried on.

"My point is, we need a final solution. And I think we have found it." Tyrion nodded to Sam and Bran. "Gentlemen."

The pair moved forward, Osha pushing Bran in his wheelchair forward while Sam juggled a laptop and linked it to a portable projector sitting on a nearby table. Within moments, the blank wall behind Sam had illuminated with the projection of the laptop screen's contents, and he stepped to the side, as Bran and Osha did to the other side of the projected image.

The screen showed the image of a manuscript page, weathered slightly yellow with age, but still legible. The dark lines of the generations-old ink stood out in prominence, and Tyrion casually wondered how much of Sam's time had been taken up modifying the image for optimal viewing and analysis.

The image had been taken from one of the oldest codexes found in the Winterfell library archives a few weeks ago, discovered after hours of careful analysis. The codex had been a collection of songs, stories and even prophecies from the great seers and greenseers of the time.

"This is the recorded history of the great Engine which was first designed by the people of the North a century ago in order to combat the White Walker threat. Designed of several parts," Sam added, indicating the various sketches inside the page, "the Engine's parts were individually designed but never combined together. A raid by Walker sympathists forced the Engine's designers to split the pieces apart so that they couldn't be all destroyed together."

Brienne spoke up. "How does the Engine work?"

Bran clicked on the laptop. The image on the wall changed to that of another page of the codex. It was similarly aged and enhanced to reveal the Engine in all its glory. About the size of a large backpack and with a constructed steel exterior, the Engine curved downwards, exterior smooth like the sides of a pill, the bottom extending out into a small supportive tripod that steadied the Engine. The top of the Engine was a glass and steel chamber extending out from the main body; the chamber was empty, a small switch inside the chamber, and sigils were etched through the glass with delicate ease.

"As far as we can tell, the Engine is powered by an external source which also has to be obtained. The Engine requires a manual activation, the core base, and then..." Bran trailed off, coughing awkwardly, and looking to Sam.

Catelyn leaned forward. "Bran? What is it?"

Sam stepped forward, shuffling his feet momentarily before answering. "We had a bit of a problem translating some of the older sigils."

Jeyne nodded. "The problem was that the sigil itself came out well in the scanning, but it was... misplaced. Or so we thought." She paused, tucking her long, auburn hair behind her ear. "The sigil used meant 'spark'."

Jaime smirked. "Like a flame? What's wrong with that? I have at least five lighters that can do the job."

At this, Sam shook his head. "No, we mean 'spark'. As in... that's the closest translation. Or at least the one that makes the most sense. Something is needed to kickstart the Engine and we have no idea what that spark is."

"Oh good," Jaime drawled, "the most important part of the entire bloody thing and we have no idea what it is, what it looks like - " He was cut off, rather succinctly Tyrion thought, by a smack to the back of his head by Brienne.

Catelyn stepped forward, her robes tucked neatly around her. Her dark hair shone in the winter light coming through the windows. "Do we at least know the locations of the pieces of the Engine?"

"To some extent." Tyrion moved forward again, shifting to the side and indicating the items in question. "The spark lies across the Narrow Sea, the key lies beyond the Wall, the power source lies to the south. The protectors of the Engine's components were rather... fastidious in ensuring no one could get to them until a time where they would be needed. A little too fastidious if you ask me, but not the point." Tyrion paused, collecting himself.

"Several of you here have particular skills. Combat, reconnaisance, stealth, driving, piloting; you have a skill that will be required in order for this mission to be a complete success."

Sam had helped him pick out the team himself. Brienne of Tarth, a formidable fighter and bodyguard who had helped Jaime escape Walker attacks along the country when they were attacked at a settlement. Jaime, with a newly tuned metallic hand he could control almost as well as his former flesh-and-blood one, even though he complained about the creaking and the rusting. Stannis Baratheon, fleeing the violence of the Stormlands with his sole surviving daughter Shireen, a skilled pilot during the Great Wars and as steady a hand and cool a mind as ever could be asked to be called upon during the fight ahead.

Arya Stark, the other daughter of Catelyn and the late Ned, with a keen eye for swords and a cooler hand when armed with a telescopic sniper rifle. Over the years, she had matured from a firecracker of a young girl into a talented young assassin on the verge of becoming a woman. Jon Snow, a fierce and talented fighter and skilled in combat. He was also one of the handful of people to have actually taken down a White Walker in hand-to-hand combat. Robb Stark, leader of the Northern resistance, King of the North, and a smart strategist who had led several successful fights against Tyrion and his father.

This ragtag team of survivors were the best that Tyrion had at his disposal, but quite frankly, he noted mentally, it could have been much worse.

"You all know your skills and you know that in order for this mission to be a success, a cohesive team is needed. It has to be as much below suspicion as possible."

Robb nodded magnanimously. "Exactly. Tywin and his Gold Cloaks will do anything to keep the status quo as is - any chance of disrupting it, and he'll come down on us as hard as he can."

"That is why, unless you are using personal transmissions using comms devices, every formal interaction with the unit will be under the codename Fireblood." Tyrion said. The amount of raised eyebrows across the room made Tyrion sigh.

"I know, the name is dramatic, but frankly, it's also a piece of outdated Targaryen etymology. It has no meaning. Referring to the unit as Operation Winterfell seems rather like tipping the hat of our presence to my father, and I'll be loathed and cold in the ground before we ever let him interfere. Anyone have any other name suggestions?"

No one answered. Jeyne smiled after a beat. "I like the name. You know, as much as I can do in these circumstances."

Tyrion grinned. "She is my _favourite_. Treat her right, young Stark." Robb stiffened a little for a moment, his hand on Jeyne's shoulder looking more proprietary than ever, before he relaxed and nodded.

"Then we need to go and assemble the Engine. What does it even do?" Arya asked, fingers idly tracing the brocade pattern along her scabbard.

"The device," Sam offered, hand pointing up to the very top of the projected diagram of the Engine, "is linked to the heart of the very first White Walker. Something in their genetic makeup changes when they change from human to Walker and that same something appears to link them all."

"Kind of like a hive mind?" Osha offered. Sam nodded.

"In any event, killing one of them doesn't kill the others, but they can sense it. They're all linked to the first Walker. However, the Engine uses some kind of power source that attacks the primary Walker and destroys him, channeling some kind of energy that can destroy the rest of the Walkers almost immediately after."

Silence hung heavy in the chamber. Tyrion looked to Sam, a small assessing smirk on his lips. The lad might be built like any manner of a fat fool, but he had a strong mind and when he spoke, people listened.

"As you can see," Tyrion offered to the unearthlly silent room, "this is of the utmost value. The first mission will head to the wildling camps beyond the Wall. Mance Ryder will most likely be adverse, at best, to your presence there, but I hope you will all be able to persuade him. It will, after all, be advantageous to his cause."

Tyrion paused for a moment, looking around the room. He sighed.

Gods help them all.

* * *

 

Hours later and knee deep in the archives, Catelyn Stark looked out of the window across the estate of her home and considered the setting sun in a pause of her work.

She was tired. Not tired in the same way that a man was tired for sleep after a day's work. No, she was drained. Exhausted. She had long since given up on sleep and fitfully gained a few hours in the early hours of the morning. These days, that was more than enough. Certainly more than she could handle, in any case.

Her mind was always restless these days. Her husband was dead, her children were either on the verge of entering a battle or trapped in the lion's den itself. Catelyn had not much reason to hope, but had a small piece of it remained in the thought that some day, she might see her husband in the lands beyond death.

She had prayed to the Stranger for months after his death and after the Walkers invaded Westeros - _if I am to die, make it quick so I can see my Ned again_ , she had prayed. But she had survived and no manner of praying to the Crone had enlightened her mind to the truth behind the veil.

So instead she buried herself in researching the archives. Her son was a skilled greenseer and a good support for the team - the Fireblood Unit, she was reminded, what a ridiculous name - but he had no patience for pouring over books, and the only who did, young Samwell, was too busy managing the running of Winterfell's technical systems. Jeyne the same.

Catelyn turned to a well-thumbed tome and opened it to a particular page that had captivated her attention for many a moon. The page was not full of descriptive language or etchings that would be stunning to the eye; in fact, it was rather plain.

The words, however, were not.

An ancient prophecy, steeped in ink upon ink, repeated over and over in the same spaces so that over the -years, it would still be legible. _The land will turn to an eternal winter and things born of hate and greed will consign dominion until the dragon returns, all three heads ablaze with the crown, the sword, and the flame._

Catelyn had little idea what it meant, but for some reason the strange, unidentified prophecy had entranced her, remaining on her work table long after histories of the Starks and Karstarks and books of alchemy, chemistry and medicine had been reviewed, noted and sent back into the archive vaults. It was no more important than over prophecies which had proven false over the years, and yet -

"Mother?" Catelyn looked up. Rickon was at the door, the tattered sheepskin blanket he was always cuddled when he was sleepy in his arms. His eyes were wide and sleepy. Catelyn smiled, closing the book and it and moving over to him.

"Come on, darling. Time for sleep."

* * *

 

Jeyne paused at the entrance to the mess hall, her pale hands sweeping back her long honey brown hair into a ponytail. Dinner was just finishing and looking around the hall, Jeyne took in the mass of huddled, hungry survivors.

She had seen a lot in her short life - her family killed, hundreds of innocents slaughtered in their beds as they slept - but it was the survivors, the ones who were left behind, that were perhaps the saddest sight.

Jeyne made her way into the hall, watching the children play in the corner while their parents and elder siblings ate gratefully, Dacey, Pyp and Grenn dealing with plates, Hot Pie and Gendry dealing out food at the small nook which lead back out into what Winterfell had of a kitchen left. Bran was sat with Jojen and Meera, maps on the table marked with empty plates. Tommen and Myrcella played with Shireen, playing with blocks and books.

That was perhaps the most unusual friendship, but the two young Baratheon children had initially come here as hostages with a group of survivors from Dorne. Robb and Tyrion had hoped to negotiate the release of young Sansa for the two children, but word was that King Joffrey had refused - plain, flat out refused to negotiate the safe return of his little brother and sister. That had shocked Jeyne the most - she would have given anything to have seen Eleyna and Rollam and brave, dear Raynald back and safe.

But seeing the three of them - Shireen with her half-grey face and hopeful smile, Tommen with his dreams of dragons and stars, and Myrcella with her unfatiguable sweetness - play together, was something strangely wonderful, given the fact that their respective families had once been united in fraternity and were now striving to eliminate one another.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Robb had sat down at the table, opposite her, without Jeyne noticing. He must have picked up dinner as well because two steaming bowls of rabbit stew were in front of them, palm-sized hunks of almost-stale bread and metallic cups of Dornish wine at their elbows. Jeyne smiled, gratefully and began to eat her stew.

"Nothing worth much considering. Just thinking about the future." Jeyne said.

"Always something worth considering in my opinion." Robb smiled at her, scooping up a hunk of meat with the crust of his bread and devouring it. He looked thinner these days, Jeyne knew. Always moving, doing, fighting - he never stopped.

"I was thinking about the plan. Tyrion's plan." Jeyne admitted, looking at Robb. His gaze darkened.

"What about it?"

"Just... do you think it'll work? It’s certainly... inventive."

"Maybe. Tyrion's one of the brightest people I know - dwarf or normal. I'm sure he's considered every variable going." Robb's free hand clasps Jeyne's across the long wooden table. His hands are scarred over, more scars than any man should have at the age of twenty one.

 "I know you don't like me being out in the field... but if it means we can bring about a better world, one for our children, one for the rest of Westeros, whatever Westeros is at the moment... then I have to take it."

Jeyne smiled wanly. "You Starks and your honour."

Robb grinned back. "You know you love me for it. Besides, you're going to be my eyes and ears. I wouldn't trust anyone else in the whole world."

Jeyne's mind flitted briefly to a man she had heard Robb talk out, eyes full of sorrow, a Greyjoy boy, the former best friend of Robb. He had trusted Theon Greyjoy completely back in those times, but then that kraken of Pyke had gone and betrayed them, leaving destruction in his wake and returned to his home in the Iron Islands.

Jeyne shook these thoughts away as Robb leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her lips and Jeyne responded, kissing him back, the coil of fear in her belly uncurling momentarily as the sun finally set through the windows, bathing all those inside with the dying rays of light.

* * *

 

"You should be in bed."

Sam looked up, book across his lap, and frowned in confusion. "I am. See?" He patted the blankets and mattress. "I am literally in bed."

Jon rolled his eyes, closing the door behind him, and stalking over towards Sam. Stalking was the only word Sam could find - Jon was all lithe grace and skill and the predatory look in his eyes was... distracting. Even the arrival of Ghost, curling up at his usual spot on an old blanket on the other side of the room didn't stop Sam from squirming a touch under Jon's look.

"You know what I mean, smart arse. Ahead of tomorrow of all days." Jon started pulling off his shirt, Sam's eyes instantly dropping to the smooth, muscled chest.

"I could say the same for you. It's not exactly an early night."

Jon sighed. "Arya wanted to go over combat and gun technique again. And then Brienne joined in and when I eventually got away, they were debating who out of the three of us would survive being dropped into Walker territory without a weapon or provisions."

"And who did they say would win?" Sam smirked.

"Doomed, Sam. Apparently I'd be _doomed_." Jon finished undressing, Sam shifting over slightly so that Jon could curl up under the covers, snuggling into Sam's side. "What are you even reading?"

"Histories of the great kings. Apparently I need to work on my strategies in case Tyrion is otherwise occupied. He is quite a taskmaster."

Jon snorts, hand sliding to Sam's stomach. "Tyrion sees some of himself in you. Ironically, so do I, but I don't quite think it's the same - "

The book whapped Jon across the shoulder before he could roll away, laughing at Sam's furious blushes. "He's a gentlemen. Of sorts. Kind of."

"You're right," Jon agreed, hand sliding down past Sam's underwear and grasping his cock firmly. "I'm nowhere near as polite."

Sam gulped, the book sliding off to one side as Jon used his free hand to pull Sam towards him, their mouths meeting in a kiss and the candle in the room providing scant illuminations as night rolled across the sky and darkness settled across Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you liked that - as it was the first chapter, it involved a lot of exposition about the mission of the Winterfell group, but the next chapter will be a very action-based one that will head north. Any relationships mentioned in the tags but which were not explored fully (such as Robb/Theon and Dany/Drogo) will be fully addressed and explored down the line when they are introduced into the storyline.
> 
> Leave any comments or criticisms. I do hope you liked that.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group head further North to recover the first item in their retinue, while in the South, young Sansa Stark finds herself in a dangerous situation, one complicated by a duty thrust upon her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so. This is me very sheepishly announcing the hugely belated, delayed release of Chapter Two. I'm not going to promise regular updates on this, but I've found a passion for this project again, as well as the vague shape in which it will be taking (I know the story, just not how each beat and storyline will take just yet). I hope you enjoy this and forgive any mistakes, as well as the frankly intolerable delay.

The next morning rose cold and early and damp, and Arya idly considered packing a blanket for the flight, but shrugged it off. The cold would keep her awake, keep her alert, and if the stories of the Walkers and the wildlings alike were anything to go by, she would need to be at maximum efficiency for the sake of the team.

The helicopter in front of her was wide, gleaming. Oil black, several years old, and one of the last surviving 'copters in the whole of Westeros, the Crow class of helicopter had proven to be a boon to the human resistance. They had a couple more in reserve, but were undergoing repairs in the hangar, so the oldest of the Crows was being wheeled out for the Fireblood mission.

Fireblood Six. Arya snickered. The name could definitely have done with some work, but when the chips were down, she supposed, you could deal with a less-than-thoughtfully-chosen-out team name.

She looked out across the Winterfell estate. Her home. Or at least what had been her home once. She remembered her father's booming, encouraging voice, the voice that told her to practise her archery aim when her mother wasn’t looking. It was a distant memory. Arya had spent most of the past two years journeying from one end of Westeros to the other, and everywhere else inbetween, and so the fond halcyon days of Winterfell were much harder to remember at all, let alone visualise.

Arya spotted movement across the courtyard from behind the Crow. Brienne. Her brutally short crop of white-blonde hair was covered in a hood, her cloak wrapped tightly around her armour, a gift from Arya's mother's family in Riverrun, fused metal and synthetic material that provided the ultimate in pound-for-pound strength resistance and flexibility.

 _The Tullys may have suffered great losses_ , Arya thought, _but they know when and how to hit back._

Arya herself preferred not to be in a situation where you needed to be flexible or have body armour at all, thank you very much. Her sniper rifle was strapped across her back and a bandolier of sharp, dragonglass-infused knives were tucked into the waistband of her clothing.

"Cold morning." Arya noted as Brienne strode to stand beside her. The older woman shifted, scratching idly at a spot on her thigh, before she replied, courteously, "It is indeed, Ms Stark."

"We've known each other for years, Brienne. And yet you still won't call me Arya."

"I knew your mother before you, and it is in her respects I refer to you by your title."

"I don't have a title, Brienne. Not really. Do titles even mean anything in this world anymore?"

Brienne's lips pursed a little, before she smiled thinly, honestly. "I suppose not."

"The others are always late. It seems you and I are the only ones with any sense of timing." Brienne added a moment later. Arya nodded, smiling a little.

"Robb and Jon are always late sleepers. Have been since they were kids. I used to sneak into their window with pails of water strapped to my back and wake them up." Arya smiled. She remembered those times, running away from Robb and Jon, her mother's admonishments in her ear, and her father's exasperation echoing down the stone corridors. Sansa used to chastise her, and then Arya would turn and splash her too, making her sister scream.

For a long, wistful moment, Arya was filled with an aching sadness, for all that she'd lost. How much she'd give to get it back.

And then the moment was gone to the winds, as she looked up to see the rest of the members of their party - _the Fireblood Six_ , Arya thought archly - trudging their way up the snow-laden path towards the Crow 'copter.

Robb led the group, his hair dampened by the faint drizzle that had begun to fall. Behind him, Arya's mother and her brothers, Jon with Sam at his side, and Tyrion at Sam's side, and Bran carried in the arms of Hodor. The final member of the group, Stannis Baratheon, brought up the rear, one massive, bony hand tucked into Shireen's tiny grasp. Whom was comforting whom, Arya could not be sure.

"Are the supplies prepared?" Tyrion asked. Arya nodded. She'd checked them this morning, making sure that the guns were clean and dry, that the supply packs were stocked. She'd been awake since dawn, in time to see the pale orange light of sunrise crest the hills and puncture the banks of snow, and in time to sit on the stone window ledge of her room, legs swinging free in the icy breeze.

Her blood was thrumming with the same icy excitement ahead of battle. Ahead of killing. Her blood was singing, Arya thought, perversely.

"All ready for the mission."

Tyrion nodded. "Good. We'll activate the comms once you're clear of the estate." He paused. "I don't feel like I should have to say this but... good luck."

Arya nodded, moving the heavy leather sheath containing Needle further around her hip, so that she could meet her mother's embrace.

"Stay safe, my love." Arya hugged her back. There was so much between them - a void that might never be breached or filled. _I remind her too much of Father_ , Arya thought, and hugged Catelyn a little tighter.

The others were sharing their goodbyes - Stannis kissed Shireen on the cheek; Jon and Sam shared a lingering kiss and embrace; Brienne shook hands with Tyrion, and went to stand by Jaime who had shaken Tyrion's hand a moment before.

"Be careful with that needle." Bran said, embracing her. An old jape, now as worn and familiar and comforting as a favourite blanket. Arya smiled.

"I'm more careful than you." Beside her, Robb ruffled Bran's hair, his hand dropping to pat the scabbard that held Ice, and stepped back.

Stannis moved to the cockpit, the others beginning to fill the Crow. Within a matter of moments, Arya was strapped into her seat, her sword between her thighs. Inside, Jon nodded at her and gazed out the window at Sam.

Arya. Jon. Jaime. Brienne. Robb. Stannis. The last line for humanity.

 _I hope I see you again_ , Arya thought with a sudden jolt of fondness for the castle, as the Crow rose higher and higher into the air, sending a maelstrom of snow flurry around them.

Winterfell looked so small from above, she thought. And then, for a brief moment, and without ceremony, prayed.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun rose upon Kings Landing, and Sansa Stark was watching the lands burn beyond the walls.

She had risen an hour before, her sleep broken and fitful. Sansa had dreamt of direwolves and death, fire and blood, and cold blue eyes like Winterfell roses. She had dressed, in a silken shift that served as a robe, and moved to her solar to look out across.

Baelor's Sept was crumbling now, the statues and precious relics long since taken from them by bandits; desperate men who had tried to fight their way out of the encaged city. Sansa had heard their screams as the White Walkers slaughtered them, and as the Kingsguard watched in their white and golden finery.

Sansa turned away from the window, the earpiece in her hands warm from the rising sun.

It had been the last gift that Ser Dontos had smuggled into the city for her, before Joffrey killed his fool and hung him from the Red Keep's walls to feed the crows and the ravens. Maester Pycelle had made a jape about his belly being big enough to feed an entire rookery and Sansa had stared at his rotting corpse until Joffrey had grown tired of making her look and sent her away.

The earpiece was small, the size of a baby's fingernail and a perfect, dark circle. It had last worked two weeks ago, and it had been her mother's voice on the other end. Sansa had cried afterwards. After she had completed her task and dined with Margaery and Loras. After she had implanted what she needed to, she had taken to her bed, and cried, and ignored the sounds of the White Walkers on their walls.

_I must be strong. Starks are strong._

A moment later, and the door opened, revealing a young handmaiden with a jug of water and a platter of fruit and lemoncakes. "My lady."

The maid left shortly after, and Sansa moved over to the table. She had to eat something; not out of hunger, but out of a logical, rational need. She never knew what the day would bring, and even if it was a mouthful of lemon cake, it was better than doing something on an empty stomach.

She picked up the lemon cake closest to her, and found the edge of a slip of parchment, tucked neatly underneath the small pile of lemon cakes and the linen napkin provided in the bottom of the bowl.

_My little bird. Be careful._

The epithet chilled Sansa's blood. She had burnt every note like that; secreted in her pillow, placed inside her copy of _The Faith of The Seven_ , and now even with her food. Sansa felt the sag to her spine. She wanted nothing more than to cry, than to give in and give up and to stop being brave.

She wanted to go home.

Years ago, Winterfell had been her prison. Unforgiving ice and endless winters, no place for the sophistication of the South against the harsh tundras. She had wanted to badly to escape, to thrive, to bloom like a rose under the sun.

That dream had died a long time ago.

Sansa crumpled the note in her hand and placed it neatly in the embers of the dying fire in the fireplace in her chambers. She watched it, crumpling in on itself, twisting in the flames, and turning to ashes. The ashes melted in her mouth and she called for one of the handmaidens for her to come and help her get ready to greet the King.

 

* * *

 

 

The court was silent, and Sansa watched the motes in the pale sunlight as it struck Joffrey on his proud, impudent, arrogant face.

 _I hope the Others come and devour you in strings,_ she thought, and then, _No, I don't. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Even you._

Joffrey shifted uncomfortably on the Iron Throne. _I wouldn't mind it if a blade nicked you though. Stuck you like the pig you are._ Sansa placated her smile into an expression of gentle neutrality.

 _I hope worms fill your mouth every time you speak_ , Sansa thought. _I hope you wake up with fire in your throat and ashes in your mouth and misery enshrouds you._

"My lord," Lord Baelish was saying, his mouth always a smile, even now. "The grain banks are almost half-full, but we need more men to protect them from the commonfolk."

"Very well. We can't all starve until our friend negotiates our safety." Joffrey, of course, referred to the chief wraith, a seven foot tall demon with skin the colour of thickened ice and eyes as blue as Winterfell roses. The same demon that had lead the army of the damned and the dead from the North.

_From my home._

Sansa paused, letting her mind wander for a moment. To Winterfell, to her source of strength, the driving thought that kept her limbs moving in the morning on days when she wanted to stay still and sleep and pray for death.

_I have to play in the snow of Winterfell once more. I have to see my family again._

Sansa turned back to the court proceedings, Margaery at her side, slim pale hand tucked into Sansa's elbow. "How long can this continue?" She murmured to Margaery.

Neither woman indicated their speech, eyes forward to Joffrey who was decreeing the passing of the shoreline officially to the Others, in exchange for their protection and safety.

"The meeting? Five minutes, I reckon. The stalemate? Days. Weeks, maybe. The court grows restless and so do our... guests." Margaery smiled demurely, her sweet nut-brown curls framing her face. Sansa was not sure what was worse, being Joffrey's fiancee or his plaything. Sansa did not envy the Tyrell girl.

"What can we do?"

"Pray?" Margaery smirked. "I think the old gods and the new have forgotten us. Or maybe they haven't, and this is a punishment."

"I don't know how you can consider this amusing." Sansa remarked. She had long eschewed the new gods, the Mother and the Crone and the Father having abandoned her prayers for help. Now when she prayed, she sought out the godswood, and prayed that her mother might be there in Winterfell, somehow at a weirwood tree of their own.

"I have to, sweet. Otherwise I would cry and cry and Joffrey hates it when women cry. Unless he's the one making them cry."

Several minutes later, following the Septon's blessing of the King, Margaery was escorted away by her brother Ser Loras, and Sansa found Lord Baelish at her elbow, guiding her out towards the back of the Great Hall.

"How are you today, my sweet?"

Her skin crawled, but she smiled, as easy as slipping on kid gloves. "Well, my lord. As well as can be expected in these frightening times."

"You are safe here, my lady. These walls have held for three thousand years. They can hold for three thousand more."

Sansa smiled, even as Littlefinger placed his hand on the wide sleeve of her gown. "Thank you. I'm not used to being this frightened."

_Liar._

His cool, assessing eyes were on her. "I'm sure you're not, little bird. But soon you'll spread your wings to a safer place."

He departed with a kiss to her knuckles, and it was only as he rounded the corner, that Sansa felt the note against the skin of her forearm, tucked snugly inside her sleeve.

Sansa descended the corridor on the opposite side to the route Lord Baelish had taken, ducking through archways to reach the safety of her chambers, and smiling sweetly at the lords and ladies whom she passed.

Through one of the windows, as she climbed the steps to her room, she spotted the sky outside Kings Landing. A murky, hazy blue, marred with the smoke rising from the city. The Red Keep was safe, for now.

She entered her chambers, and then let the note slide from her sleeve and into her palm. The note was heavy, thick parchment stained with ink and soot, and Sansa recognised the handwriting instantly.

"Tyrion." She whispered. She had not seen her husband for over a year, and she had felt his loss - not as a lover but as a companion and a friend. Their marriage might be only for the sake of the gods she had abandoned, but she still believed in him.

She opened the note, full of instructions and compassion. She shivered, then steeled herself at the first line.

_My dear Sansa. I have a duty required of you to save everyone._

 

* * *

 

 

The icy wind blew at Jon's face as he leant his head out of the Crow, and surveyed the landscape below him. Familiar, rocky, terrifying.

It had been years since he had been here last. Exploring the world beyond the Wall, finding the wildlings, abandoning them once they crossed the Wall.

_Ygritte._

She was still down there somewhere, fierce as a lion and bloodlust thrumming through her like the plucking of a lyre. The warmth of lust was gone, though; Jon still cared for her.

 _Please have kept yourself all this time_.

"We're ten minutes out." Stannis announced from the cockpit. Beside him, Jaime nodded, adjusting the controls in his seat.

The 'copter descended, slowly, and soon the black dots against the achingly white landscape beneath them became tents, the remnants of a once-proud settlement. Jon knew it well. Too well.

"They've got weapons trained on us already." Jaime said, and Jon could see the display on his screen. Red tracking dots filled the radar. "I think they're trying to patch into our communications feed."

"Let them." Brienne said. "Common enemy. I can't see them shooting us out of the sky when they've got Others to worry about."

"I could. Wildlings are halfwits at the crack of dawn and muddled at dusk." Stannis intoned.

"Put them through to me." Jon said, adjusting his earpiece. Jaime nodded, and a moment later, a burst of static and a woman's voice broke through into his right ear.

"And what do you call this intrusion?" Her voice was harsh and high, sleep-deprived. Jon didn't recognise her. "Tell us or you become pickings for our demon friends."

"We're on a mission to stop them. Classified. We'll share details with whoever's in charge, but we're landing. Blow us out of the sky and we'll land right on our settlement and all. Can't imagine your barricades can handle a dead Crow."

Robb smirked at him as they waited. Then: "Try anything, southrons, and we'll string you up for dinner."

"Clearance granted." Jon called over to Stannis. The Crow descended further, moving down and down until Stannis landed it, a tornado of light snowfall scattering around the rotating blades, on a makeshift landing pad.

Brienne slid the doors open, her hand on her sword, and soon the others were disgorged onto the thick, snow-padded ground outside.

A waiting party had already been assembled for their arrival; in thick, grey furs, their hoods turned up high against the falling snow, dragonglass daggers in their hands.

"You're too far north." The leader of the party said, peeling her hood up to reveal a long tress of flame-red hair, swept up across her forehead thanks to the wind. Her crooked smile, devilish, was unmistakable.

"Ygritte."

"Snow. Crow."

They had been lovers, years ago; when Jon had infiltrated this group of wildlings, to learn their ways and their plans for scaling The Wall. She had been bright and beautiful and he had loved her. And then it had ended, as it was bound to, and she had retreated behind the Wall again.

Jon was fervently glad she was alive. Even if she had a gun pointed right at him.

"Good to see you too."

"I should kill you right now."

"Maybe." He took a step closer. The nuzzle of her gun aimed higher. "But we're here on something of higher importance. Something that can get rid of the Walkers." He amended: "The Others."

Ygritte paused for a long moment, then nodded, lowering her gun. She turned to the figure beside her. "Lower your guns. They'll be no bother now."

The figure signalled to the others in the party, who lowered their weapons, removing their hoods to reveal the weather-beaten faces of wildlings.

"Come on," Ygritte said, "I'll show you to the tent."

The settlement was solid enough, but small - a relic of centuries past, brought out of the cold for survivors to hide in. The walls were thick and heavy stone, a large ring encircling the encampment the solid line of defence. It resembled pictures of the Red Keep at Kings Landing, in a sense, Jon thought.

His mind went to Sansa. S _tay safe_ , he prayed, and then followed Ygritte and the others into the largest of the tents.

Inside the tent, the two groups stood facing each other. A large fire burned in a metal brazier, and Jon was grateful for the heat. "Where's Mance?"

Ygritte jutted her chin out. "Died coupla months ago. He left us in charge. What's left of us."

"How many are in the settlement?" Robb asked.

"About a hundred or so." The woman to Ygritte's right said. She had the fractured, tired voice of the woman on the radio. "More children than anything. Our warriors are rapidly dropping. Or worse."

"What is it you're after?"

Brienne stepped forward, her portable computer display at the ready, the map loaded on. "A key."

"We vaguely know what it looks like, but we have a rough idea of coordinates. About a mile out from here. We track the energy signals and dig it out."

"Then why come here? What good are us savages?" Ygritte challenged. Jon sighed.

"You could always come back with us. We can arrange a convoy to bring - "

"And spend my final days shitting and shivering in some Northern pit? I'd rather die on my feet than knee deep in traitor snow."

"You'd let that happen to your children?" Stannis asked, and his gaze was directed at the woman who flinched for a second under her steel resolve. "To your... Free Folk?"

"We needed the support to leave our transport here. We only need four of us on the mission, two can stay behind and help if necessary." Jon said, conciliatory.

Ygritte conceded. "Fine. Take a couple of our men if you need them."

Jon nodded his thanks. "It's appreciated. I'll stay behind."

"I'm going." Arya said, her hand on her rifle. "You need all the gun support possible."

"I go where she goes." Brienne said. Oathkeeper glimmered in her armour.

"Okay. Robb, lead the mission, Jaime go with them. Stannis and I'll stay behind in case there's any issues."

"Come on, Snow," Jaime said, as they exited the tent, "when are there _not_ issues?"

 

* * *

 

 

Brienne led the group across the snowy plains outside of the encampment, the computer strapped to her wrist, and Oathkeeper in her spare hand.

Two of Ygritte's men - Orrell and Rattleshirt - moved in the middle of the group, and Robb brought up the rear, as the six of them moved through the snow, weapons raised.

Every few seconds, her eyes flickered to Arya, immediately behind her. _I made an Oath,_ Brienne thought. _I do not break it._

"Up here." Brienne signalled as she came over the crest of a hill. The red dot beneath them blinked closer.

Jaime made his way to her. "I'll get in touch with Winterfell. Let them know we haven't become wildling prey."

"And we need Samwell and Tyrion to confirm the key once we have it."

"That too." His hand touched her wrist, moving to the display. Brienne ignored the irrational rush of heat to her belly. "I wonder why it's giving off those energy readings. It's like it's been... I don't know, dormant."

"It's machinery, it doesn't... it can't just wake up."

Jaime shrugged. "This is the world we live in and this is the part that makes you question things?"

Brienne opened her mouth to respond, but Arya replied first: "We're here."

They were standing at the top of the hill, and Brienne could see that the small hill descended into the snow-crusted mouth of a sodden cave.

"Okay. Who wants to go into the icy cave that's probably full of some snarks or grumpkins?" Jaime said. Brienne considered punching him so that he caterpaulted into the snow, but resisted it.

"We all do."

"Great." Jaime grumbled behind her, as the six of them slid down the slope towards the entrance to the cave's mouth, and then, after a moment, entered the darkness inside.

 

* * *

 

 

"You shot me. I don't think you get to complain." Jon said. He and Ygritte were standing on the top of the battlements of the wildling camp. Stannis was below them, inspecting the Crow and fielding questions from an increasing number of children and curious survivors.

"You betrayed me, you shin-hook. I should have skinned your hide and made it into my bedding roll."

They were silent for a moment. "I'm glad you're alright." Jon said, quietly, over the sound of the wind.

"Course y'are." Then: "I'm not furious to see you too. I still have to kill you for what you did. But until then..."

"I made a vow." Jon said. Ygritte's eyebrow notched higher. "I know, I know. I'm going to keep this one."

"This all for the fat little thing at your fancy castle, Lord Snow?" Ygritte said, and at Jon's stern look, she relented. "He looked decent. Coulda taken him meself, so don't - "

Three horn blows broke her words.

Jon and Ygritte froze; then they ran along the battlements, slipping and sliding to avoid the patches of freshly created ice, to arrive at the side of Karsi, the female lieutenant Jon had spoken to moments ago.

"What is it? Where are they?"

And then Jon saw them.

Four dozen of the Walkers, tall and unstoppable, pale cerulean skin the colour of ice, marching towards them. Minutes away at best. All armed.

"Evacuate the children. Now!" Ygritte yelled, and Karsi nodded, bolting away down the flight of steps, and into the panicked crowd gathering inside their makeshift, shambolic fortress.

"What do we do, Snow?"

Jon looked at her. Hair kissed by fire.

"We fight."

Moments later, the front gates began to rattle, and Jon and Ygritte, descending the battlements, turned to the group of Free Folk in front of them.

"We've got weapons, we've got firepower. Just trust us, and we'll make sure you get through this." Jon said. A sea of worried, mistrustful eyes stared back at him.

"Do as he says. Karsi, the kids. Everyone else, grab a weapon and head up to the battlements. We can buy ourselves time by making the fuckers climb."

Everyone scurried. Jon caught Stannis' eye as the older man hurried into the cockpit, starting up the engine. "You know what I can do." He yelled over the sound of the reawakening rotor blades. Jon nodded.

 _Look after me, Sam_ , Jon thought, hand going to his earpiece, then thinking better and going to Longclaw. His other held a dragonglass dagger. Ygritte removed her bow and her lighter.

Seconds later, the front gate shattered in a spray of wood and snow, and screams filled the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't *quite* as action-y as promised, given that the Fireblood Six have been split up to investigate the key and stop a White Walker invasion, but the next chapter will deal with both of these, the next part of their journey, and emotional beats for several major characters. Hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
